Awkwardly Ever After (23 page)

“O
h, Chelsea is going to
love
this.”

I glanced from last night's handiwork to the amused expression on Jane's face as she whipped out her cell phone and snapped a photo. “She swears that she has nothing to do with it, but she might just be covering her tracks so I'm not tempted to slip it into the school paper.”

That was part of the reason Mackenzie and I had decided to keep our mouths shut. If some crazy gun-wielding maniac came at me, I could easily imagine Jane shoving me to the ground and taking the bullet. But secret keeping wasn't exactly her forte. And ever since she had created the school's fiction paper,
The Wordsmith,
I began pinpointing the real-life inspiration behind her stories.

It was best for everyone if the creator of Chelsea's posters remained a mystery.

“It's definitely . . . something,” I said lamely.

Jane was too distracted by an incoming text to notice my uncharacteristically bland response. “Chelsea says she'll see me tonight at prom. Apparently she's bringing Houston with her.” A wide smile spread across her whole face. “Is it wrong to hope that she has a showdown with Fake and Bake there?”

“Nope, I think we should make a betting pool too.”

Jane snorted. “What idiot wouldn't put their money on Chelsea? Just because she doesn't go here anymore doesn't mean she's any less”—Jane flapped her hands as she searched for the right adjective—“Chelsea-ish. Speaking of prom . . . are you going with Tim? All I've heard are rumors.”

I hoped that any second now the bell would ring and I'd have an excuse to leave all prom-related questions unanswered.

No such luck.

“The guys have agreed to perform at prom. That's all I know.” I shrugged, but the tension in my shoulders made the movement stiff.

Jane looked worried. “Well, the cops have created a barricade to prevent the press from mobbing you here. Hopefully there will be added security at the prom too.”

I ruffled her mop of red hair. “I'm going to be fine, Jane.”

She instinctively rose up on tiptoe and pulled me into a hug. “I know. I'm just sorry you have to deal with all of this craziness.” We both heard the distinctive click of a camera, and Jane automatically released me and stepped back. “This is
not
a moment you need to capture, Scott.”

Her boyfriend merely grinned. “I disagree, Grammar Girl. It's definitely a Hallmark card waiting to happen.”

She groaned and shot me an apologetic,
I'm sorry my boyfriend is bothering you
look.

“Corey might not appreciate having you take his photo without any warning, Scott. Especially since the paparazzi are all waiting in the parking lot for him to make his exit.”

And wasn't that just going to be a blast for everyone. I still couldn't believe I'd managed to sneak away to Mackenzie's house unnoticed yesterday. I was willing to bet that the only reason I'd managed to get a temporary reprieve from being in the public eye was because everyone expected me to make it to the Rose Garden for Tim's show.

After all, what kind of boyfriend doesn't show up to watch his partner deliver an amazing performance to a stadium full of people?

The kind who was too busy putting glitter onto prom court campaign posters, apparently.

“Sorry,” Scott said, as if it hadn't really occurred to him that either of us would object. “But the shot was too good to pass up. I'll send you a copy later.”

The bell rang before I got the chance to tell him,
Thanks, but I've seen more than enough pictures of myself lately—usually plastered on magazine covers. I'm going to pass.

“Catch you later, Corey.” Jane slipped her hand into Scott's right before both of them strolled toward their English class. I couldn't move. I stared transfixed at their retreating figures.

They made it look so . . . easy.

The handholding, the way they looked at each other with their emotions right on the surface for anyone to see—all of it was totally out in the open.

No hiding. No fear.

No shame.

I wanted that kind of freedom with Tim. To walk down the hallways of my high school, or a street, or even to go to a freaking ice skating rink without having our every move scrutinized. Mackenzie's words from the night before haunted me.

If you can't handle the rock star lifestyle, there is no shame in that.

It doesn't mean you don't love him.

Some freshman kid I'd never met snapped a photo of me on his phone before he turned and walked away. He didn't even acknowledge me with so much as a nod. It was as if I ceased to exist once he had the picture.

“And a Merrrry Christmas to you!” I hollered after him, just because it felt good to yell something.
“Have a Happy freaking Hanukkah!”

“Um . . . I'm pretty sure you're either really late or ridiculously early for that.” I twisted around and saw Isobel smiling at me. “But don't let that stop you.” She pitched her voice louder.
“Enjoy Kwanzaa while you're at it, jerk!”

I burst out laughing, which was probably her plan from the beginning. “Want me to walk you to class?” she offered, before nervously shoving her glasses higher up her nose. “I was already planning on tracking you down. I've got a question for you.”

“Okay, let's hear it.”

She nibbled on her bottom lip as we began to move with a tide of other students. “Well . . . how big a deal is this whole prom thing? I bought tickets before I really considered the dress code.”

“You do realize that being gay doesn't automatically make me fascinated with fashion, right?”

Isobel burst out laughing. “Of course! That's why I'm not asking everyone in the gay/straight alliance to fill out a questionnaire. I'm asking
you
. Now . . . some people wear sneakers, right?”

I stared at her. “Nobody wears sneakers.”

“But . . . let's say,
hypothetically
that someone were to wear them, would that be, y'know, terrible?”

“Terrible? Compared to what, exactly? Famine?” I fought a losing battle with my laughter and Isobel's mouth quirked up into a self-deprecating grin.

“Definitely famine. I'm thinking sneakers are better than sex trafficking . . . hate crimes . . . sitting next to Fake and Ba—Ashely and Steffani—at the Notable table. All of the above, really.”

“How can you even joke about sharing a meal with those two!” I went heavy on the sarcasm. “They can ruin anyone's appetite.”

“So . . . what do you think? About the sneakers,” Isobel prompted when I looked at her blankly. “Do I have to wear heels or not?”

Her expression was deadly serious, which made no sense because I had never once seen her express any interest in dressing up. To be fair, most of my friends looked at makeovers as the worst fate in the world. Mackenzie had blanched when I'd tried to update her wardrobe, and Jane had inched toward the exit when she received a similar treatment. But Isobel was in a whole other league; she practically
lived
in her sweatshirts.

And I couldn't shake the feeling that if she wore anything else, she'd spend the majority of her time adjusting her glasses and trying to convince herself that she hadn't made a huge mistake.

“I don't think you need my advice, Isobel.”

“I kind of want to surprise Spencer.” She lowered her voice as if there was something excruciatingly embarrassing about that confession. “We're not really dating. I mean, okay . . . we're kind of dating. Maybe.”

“Well, that clears things right up,” I said dryly.

“We're friends who . . . okay, we really like making out.” She squirmed uncomfortably. “No judgment, please.”

I raised my hands defensively. “Hey, no judgment here! I think it's great. And for what it's worth, I don't think you need heels.”

“Really?” Isobel looked so relieved I tried my best to silence my inner fashion critic.

“Absolutely. You might want to consider finding a cute pair of flats . . . but if sneakers make
you
feel confident, who cares what anyone else thinks? Be yourself.”

Isobel looked relieved. “Okay. Thanks, Corey. I'm not sure what to expect.”

I smiled back at her. “You're probably going to be one of only a handful of freshman there. Mackenzie and Logan will be doing their whole
I can't take my eyes off of you
thing, while Jane and Scott sniff out a story for
The Smithsonian
. So if at any point you find yourself needing some backup, count me in.”

“Thanks, Corey.” She lifted her chin proudly. “I doubt either of us will need it, but the same offer goes for you. I'll see you later, okay?”

She disappeared inside a classroom and the rest of my day passed without any surprises.

Mostly, I sat in uncomfortably hard plastic chairs while I pretended to listen to lectures, although I managed a jaunty wave for the paparazzi waiting outside to swarm me despite the police barricade before I drove home. I pulled right into the garage where my parents used to park before my personal life became breaking news, and headed for my room. I could have called Mackenzie and sought refuge at her place again, but I'd probably be stuck listening while she tutored Logan in American history.

Even knowing that Mackenzie
wanted
me to throw the vote to Chelsea, I'd still felt kind of disloyal selecting her for prom queen during second period. Not that any of it should matter, considering that this wasn't even our senior prom.

But nobody had objected to having the school's attention focused on a bunch of juniors. The only explanation I could come up with to explain the absence of Notable seniors was that Chelsea had managed to scare them into silence during her reign at Smith High School. And then the older students had failed to fill the power vacuum in Chelsea's absence as quickly as Fake and Bake.

I didn't want to discuss any of that with my friends, though.

Not who they thought would get the crown, not what they should wear—none of it. I didn't even want to speculate on whether we were all setting ourselves up for disappointment by creating unrealistic expectations. All of that conversation required an emotional energy that I just didn't have to spare.

So I set my cell phone on silent before tossing it onto a pile of homework on my desk. And just to be sure I didn't obsess over who was calling—or more importantly, who was
not
calling—I cranked up my music and spent some quality time staring at my ceiling.

If you can't handle the rock star lifestyle . . .

Telling the Mackenzie in my head to shut up was even less effective than saying it to the actual girl. I could picture her glaring at me hotly before ordering me to figure out my problem and get over it.

I tried to find a solution, but every time I even considered breaking up with Tim, it felt like I couldn't breathe. I was suffocating right there on the bed. It hurt. This wasn't a sting or a pang—it was a bone-deep
ache
that I couldn't push away. And believe me, I tried. I rehashed every time I'd been stuck waiting for him to finish greeting a swarm of fans. Every time we were interrupted during a meal, a walk . . . a kiss. Every time I saw my face plastered in a magazine with the caption
Rock Star Relationship on the Rocks?
and wondered if there was something they knew that I didn't.

I replayed in slow, excruciating detail how I had felt when our relationship was first leaked to the press and Tim had denied the whole thing.

How he had thrown me under the bus.

And the stupid part was that it still didn't hurt enough to make me walk away.

Not when I also remembered the rough desperation in his apology, the audible catch in his throat when he said that he'd understand if it was too much to forgive. That he missed me. That he wanted me back. That he was crazy about me and would happily shout it from the nearest Hollywood mansion, if I would please,
please,
give him a second chance.

I rubbed my jaw and imagined staking my claim somewhere on his gorgeous body. Maybe a love bite right above his heart. I grinned as I pictured the slightly stunned expression I wanted on his face as I kissed my way down his neck . . . if we were ever to get a moment of privacy.

Making out with my boyfriend wouldn't be nearly as much fun with Darryl stationed at the door.

Groaning in self-disgust, I gave in to the temptation to check my phone for missed calls.

I had two text messages waiting for me.

It never failed to amuse me the level of care and attention Tim put into even the shortest text messages. He never abbreviated words, even when he was in a hurry to get somewhere. I'd even seen him squint at his screen while being mobbed by fans, because he felt the need to make sure every apostrophe was in the right place.

The second text was more to the point.

My stomach sank with guilt. I couldn't bring myself to type the words back to him. Not when Mackenzie's voice still resounded far too clearly in my head.

If you can't handle the rock star lifestyle . . . it doesn't mean you don't love him.

I wasn't entirely sure I believed her.